


Are We?

by Lotharel



Series: Marriage is nothing [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bit of humour, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, M/M, Marriage, Murder, Poor John, Serial Killer, Sherlock's a git, Torture, Yarders, bit of bad language, fake relatioship, mostly on John's behalf, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotharel/pseuds/Lotharel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case forces Sherlock to take things to a new level with John... Marriage. Shame he never told John about it first. Soon the two find themselves submerged into something much deeper than it all first appeared; both with the case and their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm re-editing the current two chapters, but as I don't have a beta I can't guarantee that they will be anywhere near perfect. I do have the third chapter finished and ready for posting. It will follow very shortly. Sorry for the long long wait guys. I do have such a bad habit... :3

In light of things, John should have realised that he was long overdue an upset- not anything common, like a miss placed tenner or a broken kettle, oh no; he was talking about the type of disarray that could only come from living with Sherlock Holmes. It had, after all been a slow week, not boring or dragged out, just slow, calm and peaceful as if the whole city had stepped down a gear and mutually agreed that John Watson needed a damn break; the surgery had been closed for a week and the criminal masses seemed to have momentarily reformed, well mostly- only once had the crime fighting duo found themselves on the trail of a vicious murderer, pelting it down London's back streets and weaving through the dark underbelly in a high speed chase... which as it had transpired hadn't really been that 'high speed' given that their suspect had no legs. Still, it was the calmest week John had had the pleasure of in a long time, and best of all? Best of all was that Sherlock wasn't moping, screeching, shooting or insulting anything, or for that matter anyone. In fact he was the epitome of calm, just like the week itself he seemed to have spontaneously taken a chill pill, he happily came and went from the flat at frequent intervals, aiming a smile at his flat mate whenever they happened to pass, and even once making him a cup of tea- not a very nice cup of tea, but a cup of tea none the less. This itself would have sent alarm bells ringing in any normal persons head, but John (who was pretty sure he couldn't be classed as normal, and maybe not even completely stable in the mental compartment) dutifully ignored it all in favour of blissful ignorance. 

And so when John woke on the sixth day of his peacefulness with a heavy weight in his stomach, he just knew the calm was all going to be torn from his clutch, tossed into a pile of crap and then promptly tossed at an industrial sized fan. Groaning in pre-emptive despair the doctor ran a hand down his lined face before pulling himself from the warm cocoon of his bed, relinquishing his safe haven and preparing himself for whatever may lay ahead. Pulling on a pair of bottoms, John tentatively made his way towards his door, pulling it open with slight hesitation and listening for signs of a sulking consulting detective, starting down the first few steps John was pleased to hear, or not hear that is, gun shots, ringing shouts of 'BORED' or the bangs and clangs and putrid smells of another wayward experiment... in fact it seemed almost too quite, too empty and somehow John suspected that he would not find his flat mate stretched out on the couch with three nicotine patches while he strolled his mind palace either. John doubted that Sherlock had even come back last night. 

“Sherlock?” John shouted into the silence anyway as he reached the living room, though to be honest he didn't know why he bothered, even if the man was in his room, it was unlikely he would reply. Shaking his head John pushed down the tiny niggle of worry and stepped into the kitchen, telling himself that he was thankful for his flatmates absence as he flicked the kettle on (after checking it for questionable substances of course, he always did after the body hair incident...) and convinced himself that he would have at least one more quiet day in.

\----------------------------------------------------

“Have you done it? Of course you have, give it to me.” Sherlock stalked into his brothers office, flouncing onto the hideous leather buttoned couch that cost far more than its worth, all the while shooting glares at the straight backed Mycroft. Throwing his hand out and snapping his fingers in an impatient gesture, Sherlock snapped “Come now Mycroft, I'm on a schedule. Some of us don't have the luxury of sitting around and eating endless amounts of chocolate confectionery”

Mycroft, who had barley batted an overworked eyelid at his younger brothers antics, allowed himself an eye roll at Sherlock's words (Honestly, as if his brother had every cared for a schedule). Opening the top draw of his desk he pulled out a Manila folder, the type that every government everywhere seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with and an endless supply of, and gracefully, in the way that only a Holmes could, flung it across his desk towards the younger man. 

“Are you sure, brother dear, that it is a schedule that has you so wound up? Perhaps it is simply the irrepressible joy of the occasion?” Mycroft ridiculed with a knowing look towards the file, knowing his brother would rise to the bait.

Sherlock snorted as he unfolded himself from the couch and made for the file “I can assure you brother that it is merely for a case.” Sherlock sneered as his glare increased “And I am not wound up” he huffed, and looked to all the world as if he was once step away from stamping his foot. 

“Quite an extent to go to for 'merely a case'” Mycroft retorted, a simpering smirk working its way onto his face. 

Sherlock huffed an angry breath, crossed his arms and as the personifications of petulance said “It's an important case.” Even with his gaze averted Sherlock could tell that the smirk on his brothers face was growing. He could hear it. Bastard. 

“Well, you'll find all the documents are in order.” Mycroft finalised with a nod to the file, his hands coming to fold beneath his chin and his elbows on the desk. Sherlock nodded stiffly and turned to sweep from the room. “Oh, and Sherlock?” Sherlock came up short, his head inclining towards Mycroft, though he didn't quite face him. “I do so hope that Doctor Watson knows of your plan?” Sherlock didn't answer, storming from the room, the door slamming behind him.

\------------------------------------------------------

John sipped the last of his tea, one hand absently brushing the leftover crumbs off his lap. The comforting sounds of Mrs Hudson pottering around in her flat below put him at ease. The morning was good; it was warm and bright, but with the window thrown open an alleviating breeze was blowing through and despite the still present niggling in the back of his mind, John managed to put himself at relative ease. Lowering his mug to the side table the doctor let his mind wander once more to his absent flat mate, surely he didn't have a case? No, he would have asked John along... Perhaps it was an experiment? Yes, that sounded right John thought with a nod, and it would certainly explain all his odd behaviour lately. Reaching out and grabbing the folded paper laid strewn across the foot rest John settled himself back into his plush chair, union jack cushion stuffed in his back as he shoved the detective once more from his mind because after all, what could Sherlock's plans have to do with him? 

The day had progressed nicely in John's opinion; it was slow, lazy and he had managed to write up a whole blog update by lunchtime. The sun was peaked in the sky and John was once again lowering himself into his ever faithful chair, fresh brew clasped in his hands when the front door slammed, the sound was followed by quick footfalls as the visitor took the steps two at a time. Relinquishing his tea John gave it a sorrowful look as he placed it on the table and turned his head just as the absent detective swooped into the room. Looking him over, John noticed the beige file in his clutch. 

“Been busy?” he asked in way of greeting, raising his gaze to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock, in answer simply nodded, stripping himself from his coat lithely. Why he insisted on wearing it in the height of summer John would never know, to be honest he was surprised the younger man didn't need to be surgically removed from the damned thing. 

“Got a case?” he tried instead, wholly expecting a negative response, probably backed up by logical reasoning and creative insults as to why (probably by the state of his shoes and his index finger) that he obviously didn't have a case.

“Yes, actually. Rather an interesting one.” Well not the answer he was expecting... John frowned; Sherlock never went a case alone any more, especially when John had a day off. (Not that it particularly bother the detective if John did happen to be working... or on a date) 

“Oh, ok.” there wasn't much else John could say.

Sherlock sank into a kitchen chair, laying the folder out before him. Taking the papers in hand he quickly shuffled through them, his gaze trailing up and down before nodding resoundingly, as if he'd found his answers, and perhaps he had John thought from his place in the sitting room where he was sat twisted in his chair watching his friend. Perhaps he'd already solved the case; perhaps it was so simple he hadn't even felt the need to include John in something so 'dull'. Giving himself one of those resounding nods, John turned and started back in on his cuppa. 

“I'll be back shortly, need to follow up on some leads.” or not, John thought with disdain as the consulting detective rose from his place, mobile in hand and flowed from the room. 

“The case?” John asked pointlessly. Sherlock 'hmmmd' in a way that stated his profound observations of John's stupidity. 

“Anything I can help with?” John prodded; he'd never had to push to be on a case before he thought briefly with scorn.

Sherlock turned to John. His retreat halted as he took in the doctor. It was silent for a beat before he declared “Not as of yet” and continued his exit, his eyes tearing from John's in a way that almost made him feel abandoned. Once again taking the steps two at a time, Sherlock reached the door and John heard as it was thrown open, however the conventional slam of a door closing never came, and for a moment John thought the man had forgotten until a shout came up the stairs. 

“Oh, and John?” 

“Yes...” John asked hesitantly. Sherlock's tone of voice more that enough to set him on edge.

“We're married.” and there was the slam. For a moment John could only sit in the silence of the flat, his mouth working a good impression of a fish before he thought dumbly,

'Are we?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all mistakes.  
> obviously disclaimer.

John managed about 30 seconds of utter disbelief before he shot from his chair, unwittingly knocking the small circle table off it's feet, the empty mug atop it smashing against the floor- though John paid it no mind as he tore from the room, and like Sherlock before him took the stairs two at a time, his shorter legs felt more of a strain at the actions but like the table, John didn't spare it a thought. The only thing John could think was that obviously either Sherlock or himself had finally lost it because there way no way he heard what he thought he had heard, besides, he was pretty sure he would remember if he got married, especially if it was Sherlock he had supposedly married. 

Pulling the front door of 221 open John started “Sherlock! What the h-” stepping down onto the street with a quick sweep showed that the detective was no where to be seen, jammy git must have used those creepy taxi summoning powers to make a get away. 

Moaning his frustration to the sky John turned on his heel, pulling out his phone as he dragged himself back up the stairs. Maybe he shouldn't have been quite so exuberant in his earlier decent he reflected ruefully as his leg twinged in complaint. Hitting the speed dial for the Great Git he let out a string of curses as it went to voice mail. Trying again saw the same results and it was evident that Sherlock wasn't going to answer. 

“Sherlock? What the fuck?” he said following the tone “Answer your bloody phone you great idiot!” he demanded of the machine “I swear you better have been having me on, prat! Answer me. Give me an explanation. Else I'll bin your collection of spleens.” With that he rung off, tossing the mobile to the couch as he lingered in the door way, one hand resting on his hip as he thought for a moment. Sherlock had to have been having him on, right? The man was married to his work, and didn't that always put John to despair, unless it was for his work he considered carefully, after all, Sherlock was known for going to any lengths for a case... but no. Surely he wouldn't go this far? John moaned again, this time however it held more dejection that displeasure, he didn't know! And obviously Sherlock didn't feel it necessary to disclose anything until he felt fit.

A weary sigh emitted as the doctor turned to the rest of the sitting room and took in the mess; the table lay on its side, the mug fallen also and the content soaking lazily into the frayed rug. Making his way over he unhurriedly set the table right and picked up the thankfully undamaged mug, John wasn't sure they could spare another mug, what with Sherlock seemingly making a bi-weekly ritual of destroying their crockery, and frankly he wasn't even going to bother to try and mop up the spilled tea, god knows the poor carpet had had a hell of a lot worse spilt on it. Wandering to the kitchen, John set the mug down by the sink. He turned his back to the counter, leaning his elbows against it as he took a moment to rest. Just as he was deliberating on whether or not to try Sherlock's mobile again, John took note of what he was seeing... there, laying innocently on the kitchen table as if it was just another piece of useless clutter was the Manila folder. Mentally scolding himself, John grabbed it. Undoubtedly it was left for him purposefully, it was just like Sherlock to piss off and leave evidence as a form of damage control in an attempt to avoid John's wrath, or perhaps he knew John would need to see the evidence regardless in order to believe it. Reminiscent of Sherlock, John sank into the kitchen chair and took out the documents- he however didn't nod, nor was he particularly calm as he looked over the document. His attention skipping between the font reading 'Certificate of Marriage' and both his and Sherlock's signatures. 

And it was definitely there, and it was definitely real; his own signature glared right up at him from it's place next to Sherlock's, looking comfy and right at home on the official document. John once more, as was becoming a habit, moaned. This time however he wasn't entirely sure why... he tried to convince himself that it was because the anything but innocent piece of paper served as proof for Sherlock's foolish scheme, but even as he thought it, he struggled to quash the stirrings of something akin to desire in his gut.

\----------------------------------------------

The sitting room was innocent enough, warm colours on the walls and a deep, thick carpet on the floor, black out curtains were drawn across the bay window and a couple of lamps standing on side tables cast a contented glow throughout the room; it set the mood for a quite night in, and cuddle on the couch and a movie. Though it only took a glance to see that a cuddle on the couch was not what was going on here.

“Do you understand now?” Spoke an unremarkable man, his freckled fingers running carelessly across the sharp edge of his bone-handled knife as he looked down on his visitor. His head held a few to many bald patches for his age and his eyes were lined by thick crowfeet and deep, malignant bags that hung heavily. “Do you understand your mistakes?” he continued, head tilting as he stepped over the mangled corpse separating them and came to crouch in front of his guest, plastic sheet crinkling underfoot as he went. His pale blue eyes held something- it wasn't anything blatantly evil like all those story book villains, nor were they particularly deep, dark or stormy- they were just eyes. Plain, commonplace eyes. And that was exactly the issue; you pass these eyes everyday, on the street, on the tube and in your local Costa. Never is a second thought given to these completely unremarkable eyes, never an inkling as to what lay behind them.

Playing witness to the eyes was their latest victim, breath hitched as she struggled to keep her head above the vicious waves of panic, tears marred her cheeks and swamped her face, small trails of saliva had escaped her gagged mouth as she cried helplessly. She had stopped struggling a while ago- not long after she had watched her love choke nosily on her own blood- her hands and feet were tied too well.

“Well do you?” the unremarkable man spoke once more. His voice full of question and one eyebrow raised. The knife hovered between his fingers. So close. It was so close. Tearing her eyes away from the weapon the woman looked into those eyes, her head nodding frantically. He laughed. A genuine smile gracing his flecked face and he lifted the knife, drawing it closer to her face- the genuine smile curled into a smirk as she pushed backwards into the couch for escape, fear filled eyes slamming shut as she cried a beg and fat tears forced their way out, clinging to her lashes. Her breathing was so much fasted and the man relished the moment of power that surged though him, causing him to shiver. The knife trailed with a gentle touch from her forehead downwards, coming to rest on the material across her mouth, with a quick smooth action the gag severed and fell from it's place. He chuckled to himself when she took a breath to relax from the imminent danger. 

“I want to hear you. I want to hear you say it!” his low snarl made her flinch and another moment of power was registered as the woman obeyed.

“Yes. Ye-yes. I-I underssstand my mistakes. Please, please. They were mistak-es. Please, god please don't kill me. I understand. Please just- please don't.” She begged, her voice a screeching mess as she pleaded for her life, telling him the words he wanted to hear. 

The killer nodded solemnly, as one would when bad news was confirmed but at the same time duty was to be upheld and the show must go on. “Good girl.” he praised quietly, the hand free of the blade coming to stroke her blotchy cheek.

“You're going to let me go?” She asked desperately, her breaths shuddering with every intake. Once again the killer cocked his head, his mouth forming the words back at her, testing them on his lips as if the sentence had never even occurred to him. “Let you go?” he uttered almost tentatively. There was a beat of silence before he threw his head back and bellowed with mirth, the hand dropped from her face and came to wipe at his dry eyes pretentiously. “Oh no, no no!” he laughed. “I can't let you go.” as suddenly as it came, all humour ebbed from his features, that grave sobriety once more taking hold.

Taking back the gag he forced it onto her face, trying it roughly. It was even tighter now that it had been cut and the delicate skin around her mouth was split and raw with the pressure. Her cries reverberated anew into the house as she bucked against him in one last futile attempt at escape. 

“Now, now.” the man soothed “If you understand your mistakes, surely you must understand your punishment?” 

\-----------------------------------------------------

John, for the fifth time that day tried, unsuccessfully, to sit calmly in his chair. His back was uncomfortably straight, his shoulders painfully tense and his fingers tapped against the arm. It wasn't long before he was once more pulling himself to his feet and pacing the flat, picking up books, last weeks paper and even having a fiddle with Sherlock's latest experiment, damn the bastard and his complaints, it was either that or hunt down the detective and punch him in the face, John reasoned. 'No' repeating his mental mantra, taking a steadying breath as he did so 'we like Sherlock. We cannot hurt Sherlock' and even if the git did cross a major line, it wasn't as if Sherlock did this on his own. Oh no, John wasn't stupid (despite what a couple of certain Homles' thought) the stench of big brother was all over this, not to mention the signature on the ma-Nope, he definitely wasn't ready to go there yet, on the certificate proclaiming Mycroft Holmes as first witness- yeah, that was a pretty big give away...  
Oh god, it was legal (well apart from the minor detail of fraud...). They were... Sherlock was... John Watson was married to Sherlock bloody Holmes! 

John's stomach flipped, he could safely say that that was not something he ever thought he would say- that he was Sherlock's, and Sherlock was his... Except he wasn't was he? Not really anyway. It was for a case, a few weeks- a month at most and it would be over, (not that it was anything to begin with, John reminded himself) reduced to nothing more than a bad memory. Well at least it would make for a good post on his blog, John chuckled nervously to himself, though actually it didn't really sound like a chuckle at all, more like a strangled cry.  
Wandering back over to his chair, he sat and nodded assuredly to himself, soon this ridiculous marriage would be void, Sherlock would delete the whole débâcle, leaving John as always to pick up the pieces. John attempted a scoff; after all it wasn't like there was going to be any pieces... it was just a bloody case. 

Just as John was comfortably on his way to convincing himself of this he was startled by the ring of his mobile. Huffing, John once more heaved himself up, he felt heavier than usual, and made his way towards the couch. Fishing around in the worn fabric for the discarded phone, John felt a peculiar rush when the ID flashed 'Sherlock' 

'right' he thought with a determined jaw set 'it was time to set this right' accepting the call, John pulled the phone to his ear, geared up he took a readying breath. 

“Sherlock, just what the fuc-”

“John, no time. Crime scene. An 8. Possibly a 9. Location texted. Come at once!” and just like that the wanker hung up. Leaving John, mouth still half open and stood frozen with the phone clenched at his ear as his anger suddenly mounted once more. Well, John guessed there was only one thing for him to do, and with that the irate doctor stuffed the phone in his pocket and grabbed his coat as he headed down the stairs and out the door, all the while mentally repeating 'We like Sherlock, we cannot hurt Sherlock...'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Didn't realise I'd taken so long to update. Seriously... again apologies for my bad bad habits... :3
> 
> Sorry for the extra sass (especially in John), that seems to be something that happens when I write at 3 in the morning – same goes for my failings in SPaG. Sorry? 
> 
> I just wanted to mention that I don’t actually have any experience or furthered knowledge on crime scenes (I have a bit on law and criminal procedures) nor can I claim that anything medical I have mentioned or will come to mention will be correct. Feel free to correct if I do ever make glaring mistakes but I’m not planning on going too far into things so hopefully I’ll be able to successfully wing it. 
> 
> Anyway I’m going to try my hardest to keep on with this, I have the whole plot planned out (unlike my other attempts) and while I don’t know how long it will be, I have a pretty good idea as to where it’s going… I think.

                                              

The taxi ride over seemed to take forever, London passed by in its usual daze- the morning rush had died down a while ago and the tourists hadn’t yet arrived in their hoards, leaving only the odd one or two business persons rushing down the streets, noses pressed into their phones and bags gripped close.

The hunched forms of a few hoodie-wearing rebels also haunted the streets, hands deep in their pockets and heads down against the wind.

There were of course others, the elderly tucked away in small corner cafes and the unemployed in the pubs.

Though none of this mattered to John, in fact, despite staring out of the window for the duration of the journey, the doctor saw nothing of these irrelevant people, his mind completely focused on 'Sherlock fucking Holmes' and just how good it might feel to break those high and mighty facial bones- a worrying thought perhaps, but John was so far past clam to give even the tiniest of shits.

 He groaned, it was the noise of a resigned and weary man, and he dragged a hand down his face as he reigned in his flaring temper, he couldn't hurt Sherlock, he spent so much bloody time protecting the prat that it would be completely counterproductive, not to mention messy; he didn’t even want to know what Mycroft would say if John happened to kill his little brother.

 

After what seemed like a lifetime, John was climbing out of the cab, handing his fare through the window and making his way to the crime scene. The scene itself wasn’t hard to miss; police cordons and flashing lights took up nearly the entirety of the area.

It was a dump. No, literally a dump.

How original John thought with a roll of his eyes. Not behaviour one would expect from a crime scene attendee, not even behaviour that John himself would have exhibited less than five years ago, but then… well then Sherlock Holmes happened.

And don’t get him wrong; John wasn’t about to start picking apart a murderer, but seriously? A dump? ‘Oh hey I have a mutilated body here, whatever am I going to do with it? Yes, I know, lets dump it at the locally rubbish tip! Won’t that will be a jolly one for the poor tip workers to discover, brighten their day right up that will.’

 It was such an obvious move that screamed ‘look at me! I wasn’t hugged enough as a child. Look at what I’ve done.’ That John couldn’t help but be a least a bit exasperated with the criminal classes. 

Well either that or it was the work of an amateur who freaked after they accidentally sent their overbearing mother tripping over 'fluffy' the bichon frise and tumbling down the stairs in a moment of anger. Yet somehow, he didn’t think so. John doubted they would be getting the call if this were something simple that even the Yarders could figure out within a week.

No, call it a soldier’s intuition but John knew that what he would be seeing today would be the work of something horrific. Something terrible and terrifying and something that will most definitely mean John will not be getting that cuppa he wants. Bloody great. John really did hate criminals, especially ones with no imagination, he thought ruefully as he stepped over what he guessed was the remains of a used nappy.

Speaking of things that John hates, the doctor found himself running though breathing exercises as he approached the cordon and spotted Sherlock on the other side. His stupidly elegant hands clasped behind his back as he lent over the corpse, no make that _corpses_.

There were two of them. Two women, two most definitely mutilated women lay, completely bare and covered in ‘ _was that Latin?’_ It was etched into every crevice of their skin, giving the impression of a skin condition, and indeed the doctor’s prognosis from afar was a severe case of skin pigmentation, but John very much doubted that there was any case of hyper pigmentation that spelled out lines upon lines of a dead language.

Upon closer inspection, John realised that actually only one of the victims was in fact mutilated. The other, apart from her (probably unwanted) tattoo’s and the lethal slit across her throat- windpipe completely severed to the spine, John couldn’t help but note- was in pretty good condition, the only other signs of trauma being evidence of restraints at her mouth, hands and feet.

The second victim hadn’t been so lucky, he observed grimly. Definite signs of a slow and bloody well painful death, it was exactly what John had been expecting to see, the extra corpse and complete body tattoos were just an added bonus… Yup, this was definitely going to be a long one.

There was also the way they had been positioned, the disfigured body lay with eyes shut and limbs straightened by her side, in a sort of stiff sleeping pose, whereas the other, who lay similarly straight, happened to lay on top of the first corpses chest, her eyes open- like empty windows to an abandoned house- simply staring into the heavens, the pleading look her face held didn’t help.

They were like some sort of morbid human cross, and it didn’t surprise John that he had seen some of the younger officers with their backs firmly turned, looking more than a little nauseous. Sherlock- not so much.

The consulting detective had by now dropped to the ground, coat splayed dramatically out behind him as he inspected the bodies closer, occasionally sniffing and prodding at them in equal measures. He even pried the closed eyes, revealing further atrocities- it looked as if there had been an attempt made to gouge the eyes out, John wasn’t sure, but it didn’t look pretty and the doctor found himself really hoping it had been done post-mortem.

 “Hmm” he grunted “poor sod.”

“Oh, John. Brilliant, you’re here.” Sherlock looked up from his place to the frowning man. “I have three theories so far, but as you can see-”

“Shut up.” John interrupted the detective, his anger coming back at the sound of his voice. The bastard was acting as if there was nothing amiss, as if he hadn’t just committed the biggest ‘No, No’ and pissed John off to no end.

“What?” Sherlock furrowed his brows, looking intently into John’s face, picking up his anger but unable to place it.

“I said shut up.” They both seemed to have momentarily forgotten the bare corpses between them.

“You’re angry.” Sherlock replied. John couldn’t understand it, how could such a genius be so oblivious to things so massive. He couldn’t help himself, no amount of breathing exercises could calm him now, his fists clenched and a red tinge covered his face, part in anger, part in embarrassment- he could feel the stares of some nearby officers, why did Sherlock have to put him in these situations.

 “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” John was proud to say he kept his voice below a yell, even if it was just barely. Sherlock, obviously didn’t value his life as he simply gave John a condescending smirk.

 “Really, John. Not exactly the place for this is it now?” he drawled, giving a pointed look down at the corpses, it was the look one parent gave to another, the look that said ‘come now, don’t argue in front of the children’ and John had to refrain from launching right over those dead bodies and flattening that prats nose, crime scene etiquette be damned! This was not a simple domestic for goodness sake, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps now was definitely not the time for a spat but goddamn it, Sherlock had gotten them married! John felt he was entitled to a bit of a shout.    

With a deep, calming breath John spoke again, voice strained with his attempt at restraint. “You don't get to do this Sherlock. Not something this- this massive! This isn't another eyeball in my tea- this is bloody marriage, and I think you owe me an explanation!” John couldn't quite help his voice rising slightly as he demanded an explanation, and it had definitely caught the attention of others, he could see Lestrade approaching behind Sherlock- the inspectors face conveyed dissatisfaction- probably wondering why there was a domestic occurring at his crime scene, over two dead bodies. It brought John back to his senses slightly and with a quick, almost apologetic glance down at the bodies, he took a step back, turning his gaze away from Sherlock.  

“Everything alright, gents?” Lestrade asked, coming to stand beside the consulting detective.

“I believe so, detective inspector.” Sherlock answered, though not taking his eyes of the doctor, who on the other hand had yet to look back at the detective, his eyes firmly set on the ground.

“Good. Wouldn't want my crime scene compromised by you two old biddies.” Lestrade joked, smiling to himself as he looked between the pair, hands on his hips. “ Well then. Any idea's so far Sherlock?”

“Yes, as I was trying to say before John so rudely interrupted with his nonsense.  I have three theories-”

“Nonsense?!” John eyes snapped to Sherlock, his fists were white with the strain of being clenched so tight and his face promised death.

Sherlock simply looked exasperated. “Honestly, John. Have you got something against hearing my theories? They are actually very good.”

“Nonsense? For fuck- Jesus. Sherlock!” John didn’t even know what he wanted to say; his anger was encompassing any logical thought process he was capable of. “How. Just how can you stand there and-” Sherlock grabbed John, pulling him not so gently away from the cluster of cops. John wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he was sure as hell going to be inflicting pain.

Once they had reached what he considered a reasonable distance Sherlock swung John round so they we facing each other, his face was blank of any sham and his eyes seem to drill straight into John. “The fuck, Sherlock?” John pressed, pulling his arm from the detective's grip, though there was little heat behind his actions.

“John” Sherlock began, and for a moment John thought that was all he was going to get. Just before he opened his mouth, Sherlock spoke again. “These bodies aren't the first. This killer is well known, highly dangerous and will kill again.”

John frowned and opened his mouth again, if the idiot had dragged him off just to tell him his theories...

Sherlock groaned, “God, you're all so blind.” He once more cut the doctor off.

John gritted his teeth “I swear to god Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before adopting an intense look and taking a step towards John, looming over him. “What do you see, over there, what do you see?” He motioned with his eyes towards the place where the bodies lay.

John shook his head, momentarily consumed with the overpowering form of the detective crowding him. “I- I...” John swallowed before falling into his 'doctor' mode. “Two victims. Female, killed within the last 24 hours. Cause of death most probably a severed carotid artery, though only a post-mortem can confirm that, and with that interesting art work covering their bodies, they were either two extremely strange women or this was some sort of ritual killing.”

Sherlock nodded “Yes. But what do you _see_ , John”

John sighed harshly, brushing a hand over his head and glaring at the taller man “Sherlock” he gritted out.

Sherlock looked disbelieving for a moment and John thought in passing that he deserved some sort of reward for not decking the bastard “That's exactly what the killer wants you to think. The religious symbolisms, the apparent ritual and the obvious choice of victim. It's a shade, a dark shade for a set of twisted minds to hide behind from not only the police, but themselves as well.” Sherlock managed, as always, to say this all without pause, when he did finally stop it was only for a moment and the look he gave John was one of those rare, intense looks that was pretty much guaranteed Johns placation “John, this killer _will_ strike again. As it is, I'm pretty much expecting another two victims, possibly four if you keep up this ridiculous alteration”

“Wait, if _I_ keep up this altercation- Sherlock you absolute git, you're still not getting it-”

“No, John. _You're_ not getting it. This is all about the marriage. All the victims are married. Same sex couples singled out purely because of their sexual orientation. If we do this right, we can lure the killer into targeting us.” John stilled before looking in the direction of the crime scene, Lestrade was getting restless now, and John didn't need the almighty powers of deduction to tell that he would be making his way over here any minute.

“So those women were killed because they were gay?” John questioned, looking back to Sherlock.

“Yes, and no.” Sherlock answered, only elaborating at John's look of intrigued annoyance. “It’s more complicated than just being gay. Being gay would certainly be bad, but it was the act of marriage that made them worthy of murder in the killers eyes.”

“I-I don't understand, why would being married make such a difference?”

“To the killer, who is most definitely of a Christian faith, the act of marriage is unforgiveable. Pre-marriage the killer see's the victims as reformable. Fixable. But once married, they've lied, sinned irrevocably and the only punishment worthy is death.” Sherlock stated, moving a little bit too close into John's personal space.

“But that's completely ridiculous” John breathed, frowning up to the detective while mentally telling himself he was still angry and really, this wasn’t the time for him to be getting so close. Though the thought was in vain, already John could feel his anger ebbing away.

“Of course it is. But then no one has ever credited these crazed radicals with cardinal intelligence, or you know, any intelligence at all.” Sherlock turned at this, striding off in the direction of Lestrade and the bodies. He turned, walking backwards for a few steps “So, is this settled then, ' _darling'_?” he asked smugly, blowing a mock kiss and winking at John, that impossible simper of his climbing upon his lips. John, mortified, couldn't help but discreetly look around to the yarders who had been within hearing distance, too his horror it seemed that every face in the vicinity was gaping directly at the two. Some seemed shocked, others seemed mildly put off and the rest (note Donovan) seemed too be smiling just a little to tightly to be comfortable.

“Ah” John huffed, breaking into a small jog towards the crime scene and in turn, Sherlock “Bugger it.”


End file.
